The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 23

ITH her whole being in a whirl of new sensations and feelings, the happy girl made her way up slowly through the plantation of olive and orange trees. More than once she stopped walking, and pressed her hands to her temples. Was it, indeed, she, Lily Fairfield, who had just gone through that wonderful experience with a man of whom she had never heard a month ago, and yet whom she now knew would be henceforth the whole world to her?

Like most girls brought up entirely with older people, there was something at once childlike and mature about Lily Fairfield. She realised dimly that only an exceptional man, one with a very high sense of honour, would have said to her what he had said to-night. He had not tried to rush her into an immediate marriage as almost any young man who cared for her as he seemed to care would have done.

As to his having taken her in his arms and kissed her—Lily loved him all the more for that. It showed her that he was human after all! Perhaps it was the training of fastidious, old-fashioned Aunt Emily—perhaps it was something in the girl's own nature—but ever since she had begun to think of such things, which was not so very long ago, Lily had always thought of a kiss between a man and a woman a sacred thing. No man had ever kissed her till Angus Stuart's lips had first trembled on her lips a few minutes ago.

Oddly enough, there came to her to-night a memory of the sudden repulsion she had felt for a young man, whom otherwise she had thought a very jolly kind of boy, when he had once observed laughingly, perhaps a trifle boastingly, that he only cared to go to a dance where there was a conservatory in which he could kiss the girls!

Yet it was a comfort to feel that she need not consider herself “engaged” to Angus. It would take a long time for her letter to reach Uncle Tom, and for his letter to reach her, and then she would be within sight of the time when she was due to leave La Solitude.

Perhaps because of what Angus Stuart had said, as she drew nearer and nearer to the house, there came over her an overwhelming desire to go away as soon as possible from La Solitude. With the easy generosity of youth she asked herself why she shouldn't simply hand over to Aunt Cosy the money which she would have had to pay had she stayed on till March? It was the five pounds a week Aunt Cosy valued, not her company—though that the Countess was fond of her in a way, was clear to the girl.

How strange to think that a dwelling-place which had brought her such immeasurable happiness—for had she not come to La Solitude she would never have met the man who had just left her—yet filled her with a curious, sense of foreboding and discomfort.

As she emerged on to the lawn and saw, in the bright moonlight, the long, low house, there came over her just the feeling she had had this morning—a feeling of acute, unreasoning discomfort—and again with that disquieting sensation seemed to be coupled the odious personality of the old Dutchman, Mr. Vissering. Perhaps because of that silent, fleeting meeting with the woman who kept the Utrecht Hotel, she had thought of him several times that day, half fearing she might come across him.

Now, to-night, the thought of him was overwhelmingly present, though she had no reason to suppose that she would ever again be brought face to face with his strange, sinister, and, yes, insolent personality. She hoped with all her heart that Beppo was in no way in his power.

She walked up on to the terrace and knocked lightly on one of the drawing-room shutters, for so she had arranged to do with Cristina. What seemed a long time, perhaps five minutes, went by, and she knocked again, a little louder this time. And then, at last, she heard the window within being opened, and the shutter unbarred.

It was Aunt Cosy who let her in—Aunt Cosy, who so very seldom sat up after half-past nine.

“I thought Beppo would have returned with you,” said the Countess, and there were both regret and relief struggling in her voice. “I have been listening for the sound of a motor, though I did not expect you to be so soon back, dear child.”

Lily felt rather guilty, nervously afraid lest Aunt Cosy should cross-examine her as to how she had got home, and who had brought her back. She told herself desperately that if she was thus questioned she would take a leaf out of Aunt Cosy's own book and say that M. Popeau had brought her back!

But Aunt Cosy asked no questions. Instead she only said in a preoccupied way: “And now we will go to bed.”

“I'll go to the kitchen, and get my candlestick,” Lily said, but Aunt Cosy stopped her with a peremptory: “I have your candlestick here,” and sure enough, to the girl's secret surprise, she saw that there was a candlestick put ready for her on Uncle Angelo's card-table.

After they had made their way up the narrow, steep staircase together, Lily turned to receive Aunt Cosy's usual good-night embrace, but the Countess exclaimed: “I will come into your room for a moment, my dear!”—and when they were inside the door, she shut it quietly.

“I have a piece of news for you,” she said slowly; “it is bad news, Lily.” There was a very curious look, certainly not a look of sadness, on the speaker's face. “I did not wish to spoil your pleasure this afternoon, or I should have told you then,” she added.

Every vestige of colour drained itself from Lily's face.

“Has anything happened to Uncle Tom?” she asked in a low voice.

The other shook her head quickly. “Forgive me, dear child! Of course your thoughts naturally fled to your adopted father. No, no! As far as I know, Tom Fairfield is quite, quite well. No—the news I have to break to you came in a telegram after you had gone this morning. I felt sure you would not mind my opening the telegram?”

She paused.

Lily stared at her. A telegram for her? But there was no one who could have anything to telegraph to her about, excepting Uncle Tom!

“The telegram,” went on Aunt Cosy slowly, impressively, “was to tell you that Miss Rosa Fairfield is dead.”

“Cousin Rosa dead?” repeated Lily mechanically.

She was very much surprised and yet Uncle Tom and Aunt Emmeline had always been expecting Miss Fairfield's death, talking about it as if it was likely to happen soon, for the old lady was much over eighty.

Yesterday, nay, this morning, the news would have excited and moved her, but what was Miss Rosa Fairfield's death compared with what had happened in the last hour—to that great coming of love which was still absorbing her whole being?

“Here is the telegram.”

The girl put down the candle which she had still in her hand, and opened out the piece of paper. Yes, there it was in printed characters: “Miss Rosa Fairfield died yesterday morning. You are her residuary legatee, but no necessity for you to return. Letter follows.—.”

Lily stared down at the words.

“Who is Arnold Bowering?” asked Aunt Cosy.

“He is our friend, as well as Cousin Rosa's solicitor. I've known him all my life,” answered Lily slowly.

“You do not look particularly excited,” said the Countess “I suppose there is no doubt about your heritage? I do not quite understand the term, 'residuary legatee.' Can that mean that Miss Rosa only left you what will be left after some other person has been paid?”

The words can hardly be said to have penetrated Lily's brain, so, “I really don't know,” she answered vaguely. “To tell you the truth, Aunt Cosy, I don't care much!”

There had come over her a feeling of keen regret that she had not gone to see Cousin Rosa before leaving England. There had been some talk of her doing so, but the old lady had not seemed really anxious to see her. Lily wondered if she ought to have told Angus about Miss Rosa? Somehow she was glad she had said nothing about it. There would be plenty of time to tell him when next they met—if they had nothing more entrancing, more exciting to talk about

“We will wait till this Mr. Bowering's letter comes, and we will then judge whether it is necessary or not for you to procure mourning,” said the Countess thoughtfully.

Lily felt a slight thrill of disgust run through her. “I'm already in mourning,” she said a little coldly, “for Aunt Emmeline.”

“Yes, but if you've been left a fortune by this old lady, then surely you should wear all black for at least a month?” observed Aunt Cosy reprovingly. “I should have thought, Lily, that your own good heart would have told you that.”

Poor Lily! It was with difficulty that she prevented herself from bursting out laughing. What an unconscious hyprocrite [sic] Aunt Cosy was!

She longed to be alone, longed intensely to be free of what she felt to be such an alien presence as that of the woman who was still standing there, before her.

“Well, dear child, I will now say good-night. But before I go I should like to see you drink up your Sirop. As a matter of fact I require the glass. We are short of glasses, for I broke mine to-day. If you will drink up your Sirop I will take the glass away and wash it, and then I will have it for myself. I generally drink a glass of water during the night.”

Lily was not particularly thirsty, but she would have done anything at this moment to get rid of Aunt Cosy. So she took up the glass which Cristina had left by her bedside.

And then there came in Uncle Angelo's familiar fretful voice the words “Cosy! Cosy!”

The Countess turned quickly and, leaving the door open, went down the passage.

Lily rushed over to her tiny basin and ewer. Breathlessly she poured the Sirop into the ewer. Why should she drink this rather sweet, sickly stuff if she didn't feel she wanted to do so?

She felt a little bit ashamed of her sly act, but Aunt Cosy's ways induced slyness in those about her.

She went to the door and held out the glass; it was taken quickly from her hand, and then Lily shut the door with considerable relief.

She hesitated a moment—and then something, she could not have told you what, made her turn the key in the lock. It was the first time she had ever done this at La Solitude, or indeed anywhere else.

She undressed. She said her prayers. She got into bed. She blew out her candle. But try as she might she could not fall asleep! She was extraordinarily excited—at once happy and oppressed.

After what seemed to her a very long time, she began to feel that strange, intangible feeling of drowsiness which heralds sleep. And it was at that moment that she realised that the curtains of her window were not drawn. It was a small matter, but it surprised her, for Cristina was very exact and particular as to such things.

Ought she to jump up and draw the curtains, together? No, she felt too sleepy to do so.

And then, instead of falling into the healthy, dreamless sleep to which she was accustomed, Lily slid off into dreamland; and in her dream she was far, far away from La Solitude and Monte Carlo. She was back at The Nest at Epsom. She was telling Aunt Emmeline about Angus Stuart, and Aunt Emmeline was looking at her with a rather anxious, troubled look. At last, to her great joy and infinite relief, she heard the measured, slow, kindly, familiar tones:

“From what you tell me, Lily, I think he must be a very worthy young man. Your account of him reminds me of what your Uncle Tom was like, when I first met him.”

And then suddenly Lily woke up. For a moment she actually thought that Aunt Emmeline was here, in the room! She seemed to hear the kind, loving, rather prim words echo in her ear.

She was not frightened, yet all her senses were sharply on the alert, and all at once the stillness, the intense, brooding stillness which always hung over La Solitude at night, was broken by some stealthy sounds rising from the yard which was just below her window.

Lily sat up in bed and listened intently. Even now the sounds she heard were less real to her than had been Aunt Emmeline's voice in her dream. Perhaps she was still dreaming? But no, for again she heard those curious stuffless sounds.

She began to feel a little alarmed. Who could have gained access to that narrow yard below? True, there was a big gate which gave on the rough road outside, but it was a gate which, as Cristina had told her, was hardly ever opened.

She jumped out of bed, and, going to the window, pushed it open, and leant cautiously out. As her eyes grew accustomed to the starlit atmosphere, for the moon had set, she thought she could just see that to the right the great gate was open to-night. What an amazing and extraordinary thing! She listened intently, but the stuffless sounds had ceased. So she got into bed again.

After what seemed a long time, she again heard the same sounds. Perhaps some animal had wandered in from the mountainside above? Yes, that was what it sounded like—as if some goat or donkey, finding the gate open, had wandered in, hoping to find something to eat or drink. It was as if some biggish creature was dragging itself along over the uneven brick floor of the yard.

There was only one door giving into the house that side, the door which led to the kitchen, and which was always kept locked. Only unlocked, indeed, when Lily herself went into the yard to the outhouse to have her bath each morning. That door led only into the yard, it was not used as a back door, as it would have been in England.

Lily fell asleep again; and she could not have told you whether it was a few moments or an hour, later, that she was awakened, this time by the loud, unmistakable sound of the gate in the yard below being swung to.

What an extraordinary thing! She jumped out of bed. This time she rushed to the window, and craned her head out to see in the light misty haze of earliest dawn that the gate was shut now, and that everything below looked as it always did.

It must have been a human being, not an animal, which had penetrated into the yard during the night.

She pulled the curtains together and fell asleep again, till she heard Cristina's light step in the passage. Then it wasn't night any more, it was early morning now? Why did poor Cristina get up so early—perhaps to go to the first Mass up at the chapel? There was a priest staying near there who had the strange habit of saying Mass at five o'clock. Cristina often got up to attend it. Lily always knew, for the old woman looked so dreadfully tired on the days when she had done this.